You know those questions that really crawl under your skin
Creep into chest, and seep vinegar into your veins
The kind of questions that are so unappetizing your gag reflex kicks in
And instead of chewing on an answer you just choke, spit up their question, regurgitate that gem
“Right back at ya”
But they don’t even notice
because to them it’s an easy question with an easy answer.
Even though the question is so fucking vague
And could have a million answers,
They drop their line, fishing for just one aspect of your life to define you.
“So… what do you do?”
I do a lot of things, I eat, I sleep, I shit, I piss, I fuck, I write stuff like this, I talk shite, I dream, I cry, I dye my hair
But they don’t want to know these things,
They don’t want to know what I do for fun, who I do for fun,
They don’t want to know my dreams and aspirations, the things that make my heart sing, scream, and do backflips into my stomach, and butterflies into my bladder
They don’t want to know me.
They want to know what it is that “I do”
That thing that I do for money- “My Job.”
Because that is what defines me-in this capitalist dystopia-
Only it’s not.
I make coffees all day but I’m not a barista
I pour you a beer, shake up your martini, mix up the best damn long island you’ve ever tried
But I’m not a bartender,
Sure I’ve bartended plenty.
I serve you your breakfast, your lunch and your dinner,
But I’m not your servant
Your server, your waitress, whatever you call it,
They just pay me to do this.
I may do your laundry, fold your clothing,
Take care of your children
But I’m not a nanny.
I’m a full-time writer and part-time worker,
I don’t do this for money- but I would…
I’m an artist.
I’m a writer.
And I’m a fighter.
And I’m a dreamer.
So yeah…Two days ago I got a job. I am no longer unemployed! Another good old minimum wage job, yay, thanks for asking, (everybody), but it doesn’t define me. I won’t let it define me.
That is all.